Dancing
by Anonymississippi
Summary: After a session with Dr. Guyson, Goren starts thinking about his relationship with Eames. Then he runs into her in an odd place. Based on the therapy session during Season 10's "Trophy Wine." Contains a smidge of romance if you tilt your head and squint.


**_So glad to have Goren and Eames back, if only for the summer. After Goren's therapy session in "Trophy Wine" I felt like someone had to hop on that storyline. So, spoilers for "Trophy Wine." The rest is inspired by the start of Fox's SYTYCD summer season. I don't own anything; it belongs to NBC affiliates, USA, Dick Wolf and all that jazz. Enjoy..._**

Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen? ~Friedrich Nietzsche

"_Do you love her?"_

Well, he couldn't say he didn't expect her to ask. The leading questions, the obvious lack of any other stable relationships, familial or social, the long hours, even the basic proximity from desk to desk had him and half the squad room questioning just what the _hell_ they were doing. They were dancing, he thinks, skirting the issues and avoiding any blatant admissions of forgiveness or anger or gratitude or, anything really, positive or negative. But then she up and quits her job after she fires him and he adamantly refuses to fixate on that, so he just looks incredulous and addresses Dr. Gyson.

"_What? No, god no. She's my… partner. I'm a professional. The last thing she needs is for me to go and hit on her."_

"_I didn't ask what she needs. I asked if you have any romantic feelings for her."_

"_No."_ He says it with an aggressive finality._ "She's like a sister to me."_

Which then brings up siblings, and Frank, and then they're back to his _relationships_, and the significant lack thereof. Then he launches into an admittedly unnecessary spiel about working relationships between men and women in general, but damn if the good doctor doesn't go for it, and brings it straight back to her. Eames. His partner-and-nothing-more. Gyson had asked about her. About Eames.

"_She's a great cop. She's more practical than I am, commands respect… She's, um, she's smart. She puts up with my crap. And, as you're learning, that's not all that easy."_

She'd said his feelings were at odds. Romantic feelings at odds with admiration and respect for his partner, his partner of twelve-ish years. He thinks about it as he stalks from her office. Twelve years, more than a decade he's known her. Worked with her. Yes, she was the longest relationship he'd ever had with a woman… well, with anyone outside of his family. And he can't really count them anymore.

He walks the two blocks down to the subway and catches the train that takes him back up near One PP. He doesn't want to think about it anymore, because, well, she's _Eames._ And if he had to think of the second longest relationship he's ever had with a woman, it would be Nicole, which posits too many negative notions for him, so he sashays past that thought.

He looks up at his neighbor-subway passengers. A small group of middle-aged women in workout clothing, gently moving as the car moves. Two bums bounce in the back, near a guy in a cheap suit with a greasy, pencil-thin mustache. He could have sold anything from outdated beepers to encyclopedia sets. He rants into a Blackberry with a cracked screen. No ring. No wonder, Goren thinks, as he spies an elderly man with a cane dodging the greasy-mustached man's swayed movements in the vibrating car. Slouched proudly in the middle seat is a teenager with an over-sized headset and sunglasses on, bobbing his head and looking like he should definitely be in school. Bobby checks his watch: 5:15 p.m. Nope, school's out. End of the work day, but he's still got to go get his car from the garage and the case files. He takes another sweeping glance around the car and notices a similarity: they're all moving. Subtly, dancing.

He doesn't know what possesses him, but he gets off two stops early. He follows the workout women and the old man out as the doors slide open. He's just ambling down the sidewalk, recalling the bits and pieces he's learned about wine and tastings and swilling and spitting and Bordeaux's and pricing and anything but Eames and his therapy session. He passes a bookshop he's frequented on occasion. He stops walking, turns around and pops his head in. He speaks to the clerk, and the college hipster shows him to the cooking section. He quickly scans the titles, but doesn't think _Wine Tasting for Dummies_ or _The Clever Connoisseur: A Beginner's Guide to the World of Wine_ is going to cut it. Google it is, then. Beside the cooking section is the self-help section, which he finds ironic, because a lot of self-help books are about losing weight and becoming "the best me I can be!" and all that shit. On display is the latest in a line of self-help books penned by reality celebrities and B-list athletes and talk show hosts. He picks up a thin hard-back copy, _10 Quick Fixes for a Happier Existence_, by some lady in a pink suit with a yapping dog at her heels. He flips to the end. 152. There are 152 pages in the book, roughly. He can read 152 pages in a single sitting. He wonders how anyone can acquire a happier existence in 152 pages or less, not counting acknowledgments and tables of contents. He laughs, sets it down, and waltzes out the door.

He keeps walking toward One PP, people-watching as he goes. He looks in a restaurant, catches two men at the bar, ties loosened, brown liquid in round glasses. He thinks about going in, but keeps walking instead. A corner bodega, still open, with bars on the front door and two security cameras in plain view from the outside. The kid inside is bopping along as he sweeps. He strolls past another restaurant with a large window, this time eyeing a couple splitting a bottle of red wine. He checks his watch again: 5:30 p.m. They're starting early. He feels like the wife might know something more about the wine cellar as he watches the woman bring the glass to her lips. If not the wife, then at least the butler. He had been down in the tasting room earlier that day. He could call Eames and ask her about the wife's alibi, ask her what she thought of the butler. He could ask her what she thought about that man paying hundreds of thousands of Euros for a few swigs of wine and she would cock an eyebrow, return with a morbidly sarcastic quip, and get back to her paper work. That's easy, natural interaction, he thinks. Case-related, safe territory. He could ask her what kind of wine she liked, and if he could ever take her to get some. Then she'd stop writing or reading, and slowly raise her head. She'd respond with four words: "I don't drink wine." When really, the four words he would hear are: "You've crossed a line." And she wouldn't smile, or grin, or betray any sense of lightheartedness because they weren't back _there_ yet, and her deadpan is just too good to challenge.

_Do you love her?_

How could he? Easily, if he thinks about it in logical terms. Based on compatibility, interests, ease of interaction, length of relationship, similar life outlook… Well, he thought he knew what she wanted in her life. They'd never really sat down and talked about their futures. Because that wasn't safe. Wasn't case-related. Wasn't protected under the "partnership clause." So they kept to the case files. To the current investigation. To the dead wine specialist.

So what if he wanted to buy her wine? Or bourbon? Or Ovaltine for Pete's sake. They buy each other stuff. Christmas gifts, the occasional birthday present. They spot each other for coffee or lunch when one of them is short on cash. They don't talk about repaying each other, or owing each other, because those words carry heavy connotations; so they skip around them. He thinks about how well it's been lately, how they're almost next to normal, but those damn sessions won't let him. They won't let him just **be **with her, on the job, of course, so now he has to do the worst thing he can, which is _think _about it. About the possibility of more than a partnership with Eames. Would she? Wouldn't she? Is she seeing anyone? What does she even _do_ away from work? That question gives him pause, and he picks up his pace to One PP. The sooner he gets there, the sooner he gets the case file, the sooner he can focus on the murder, the sooner he can STOP focusing on Eames, and do a good job of forgetting that session entirely.

He slows in front of a studio window, blocked significantly by a large sign advertising walk-in weekday dance classes. His six foot two self is able to peer over the sign, and he catches a glimpse of the women that had shared the subway compartment with him, not in workout clothes, but tights and leotards. Most of the women are, well, older… Check that, they aren't old, just not the late teens and twenty-somethings he knows inhabit the stage at the New York Ballet Company. These women are moms, working singles who never settled long enough to have a family, women using the class to keep in shape. But they're all quite good. He lets his eyes linger on the barefoot dancers as they leap lightly and spin, in near-perfect unison, heads erect and shoulders down. He hears the music lightly through the glass, a swaying piano melody driven by an inconstant snare drum and a pounding bass. He's about to turn, to hurry back to the precinct before the women decide to call the cops on the peeping Tom at the window, until he catches her reflection in a mirror on the far side of the studio.

She doesn't see him, and the instructor hasn't noticed him either, so the dance continues. He's never seen so much of her arms, contrasted drastically by the deep maroon tank she wears. Her whole body tenses and flows, even her _fingers_ exude a harnessed energy. He notices, for the first time in a long time, just how surprisingly small she is. And he knows he can't just leave now, not while she's moving like this, in a completely different way than he's accustomed to seeing. But, with every step, every count he hears the choreographer yell, he see, familiarities, in her movements. The way she bends forward, arms outstretched, she could be lowering herself over a body at a crime scene. The way she tilts her head, on perfect beat, she could be reading over a case file. Then she lunges and twists backward, leaning further back than a woman her age should be capable, and he thinks about how she stretches in that rolling chair she constantly complains about at her desk after hours of sifting through suspect profiles. And it would happen, when she's bent backward and slightly inverted, that she would catch his eye. She nearly loses her balance, and the woman beside her gives her a look meant to kill a puppy. He watches as she recovers, continues the dance, but her movements are more restricted… more, _guarded_, he thinks, now that she's noticed him. The music slows and dies, and he sees her step off the floor and grab a hoodie. Then she disappears through a side door.

Well now he feels like shit, because he just made her skip out on the one possibly enjoyable thing she does away from work. This is just so not her, not Eames. Or, at least, not the Eames he knows. A few of the women have noticed his presence now that the dance has ended, and he thinks he hears the name Alex come from one or two of them, with a not-so-subtle inclination of the head toward him, the random guy standing outside the dance studio window. He doesn't have a reason for staying, now that she's left the studio, out the back door, he thinks, so he sighs and resigns himself to an awkward greeting in the morning.

He's started back on his way to One PP when he hears her call him back.

"Hey Bobby! Wait up!"

She jogs up to him, breathless and slightly flushed, wispy hair chunks falling out of a loose ponytail. Clad in an oversized NYPD hoodie and sweats, she doesn't seem mad or even irritated, just a little surprised.

"Oh! Hey Eames… I was just, um, heading back to the office." He rubs the back of his neck and finds a very interesting crack in the sidewalk. "Gotta get the case file, you know. Interview tomorrow and everything."

"Well it's a good thing you caught me, cause I've actually got it." She's less flushed now, and he watches her rummage around in her bag. She pulls out the file, hands it to him. "You would have gone all the way back for nothing."

"Not for nothing… I've gotta get my car from the garage."

"Oh, well in that case, let's go. I need a ride. I don't really want to walk all the way back to my apartment tonight. My feet hurt." She falls into step with him.

"But what about your, uh…" She gives him a half-grin. He wonders if she's enjoying this at all. "…class? Won't they, miss you? Or something?"

"Nah, it's sort of a, come-and-go-as-you-please kind of thing."

They keep walking, turning up at the next block.

"You're, um, really good," he says, trying his best to say the appropriate thing when you find that your partner has some hidden talent that is completely un-police related.

"I know," she smirks. "Why do you think they recruited me to Vice?"

He tries not to think about that. "How long have you been dancing?"

"Pretty much all my life. I didn't go for nearly seven years in my twenties, though; I started slacking when I was at the Academy. But I've been coming on and off since I made detective. That's why I like this class so much. No commitments really. Like I said, come-and-go."

More silence. And a little more walking.

"But you're so…" he trails off, waving a hand as if that explains exactly how _so_ she is.

"What?" She asks. "I'm so what, Bobby? And I suggest you think carefully before you speak."

He turns to look down at her. She looks straight ahead, hands shoved in the pocket of her hoodie, hair still falling. She seems… confident, very in her element. And, he doesn't know if it's just a consequence of his session, but she does look attractive.

"You're just such a hard ass sometimes," he says.

"Yeah, I am. And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, I've always thought of dancers as more…"

She raises an eyebrow at him. Careful…

"Fragile, I guess. I know it's not all delicate and weak, I've read about it. Styles of dance, I mean. It's just that, you're so…" he shrugs, at a loss for words. "I just never pictured you as a dancer, that's all. Not after seeing you take down Wheeler in that sparring session."

They reach the front gate, show the guard their shields, and head toward the garage elevator.

"Yeah, she has a couple of inches on me. I think she was pretty surprised."

He hits the button for level three and the doors part. He lets her go in first, always the gentleman, and they ride in companionable silence until they get to the third floor.

"I started when I was seven," she says. "Mom really didn't like me being so much of a tom-boy. Said I could play one sport for every artsy class I took. Dancing was physical, so I chose it. I liked it a lot. And I got to play basketball. I was point guard for my JV team."

They exit to the third floor and head toward the only Mustang on the lot.

"But then, high school hit, and I didn't really enjoy getting run over on the court by all the six foot Amazons they recruited from Long Island."

He hops in on the drivers' side. It's the only time she lets him drive. When they're in his car, which isn't too often, but not infrequent enough for it to be awkward.

"So I started cheering, and I kept up with the dancing. I was enough of a girly-girl in my hobbies to make up for that hard ass attitude you so recently pointed out. Pom-poms and sarcasm. The perfect ingredients for a prom queen."

He grins at that, sneaking a look at her with his peripherals. He can't say he never thought about her body before, because he has. Him being, well, an undeniably large man and her being so petite. He's thought about her frame; how, if for some reason she decided to take a bullet for him it probably wouldn't work, considering her body area was literally half of his. He's never seen it as a dancer's frame, though. But now, he can't picture her any other way. Even when she moved with a gun it was graceful. Assured, he thinks. Her limbs seemed agile, nimble, and capable, no matter what she was doing. He never really noticed before how rarely she tripped. Even tracking suspects off the beaten path, with cadaver dogs in the woods, she always keeps her footing better than those CSU guys. And better than him, of course. Can't forget his inept self.

"I think it's great that you've kept up with something so long that you enjoy," he says. They exchange polite glances. "Like I said earlier, you're very… um, flexible?"

Pause. It's pertinent to dancing, he rationalizes. To dance, one has to be flexible. To lift legs and arms and shoulders and… other body parts. But then, it was Eames, and her body parts, and her arms and her legs and her…

"Ha, right. Not as good as I used to be. I can still touch my toes though." She lifts her sneakers from the floor and drops them back with an unceremonious thud.

"Would it be too much to ask for a demonstration?" he asks.

"I will if you will."

"I don't think it's safe for me to do that while I'm driving."

"Another time then," she says.

They continue riding, stopping at a red light. It's gotten darker, and the stirrings of the New York nightlife have begun. Speeding cabs, bunches of co-eds dressed to the nines, strutting down the sidewalks, and one or two already-tipsy businessmen headed home from a day of crunching numbers.

"I think we should take another look at the wife," Eames says. "She was there the whole time that tasting was going on, there's no way she didn't at least hear something."

Goren nods as he pulls up to her building and puts the car in park.

"And the butler. The butler was actually IN the tasting room. God, who would dedicate that kind of money to a _tasting_ room? That's so ostentatious."

"Probably the same as someone who would invest in suits of armor for a foyer," he replies, commenting on the mansion they'd visited that afternoon.

"Yeah," she says. "Vibrations my ass. He just didn't want us poking around at those three bottles he got."

"I told you, he wasn't feeling my size thirteen vibe."

"Then he should have at least let me go in that cellar. I'm really light on my feet."

"Yeah."

Then there was that moment, that uncomfortable spot where he doesn't want to walk her to her door because they just don't _do_ that, but he doesn't really know how to end this exact interaction so he might just walk her up so as to prolong the ending. A beat passes. They look at each other, and she grabs her bag from the cramped back seat.

"Well," she says. Pauses, another beat. "I guess I'll see you in the morning. We can check background on the butler early tomorrow."

"Yeah, we can…" He lets her exit the car. But then again, he doesn't really want the day to end like this, so he rolls down the window. "Hey Eames!"

She turns on the first step, looks back at him. He doesn't want to be that crazy guy yelling from a car window, so he gets out and walks up to the steps.

"Sorry I was being, uh, weird or whatever. I just, um…" He leans against the railing, figuring out just how to phrase this so it doesn't sound insulting, or strange, or overly attentive. "We talked about you in my therapy session today." There. That was good. Plain, cryptic, but specific enough to maybe give her a reason for his conflicted behavior.

"Oh, good things I hope."

"Of course. You know, she just wanted to know about you. How long we worked together, what you were like, stuff like that."

She hops up two more steps so that she's on eye level with him.

"Right, and what'd you tell her?" she asks.

"What?"

"I want to know what I'm like. You know, from your perspective."

"Oh, well," he hadn't been expecting this. She pried on occasion, but never like this. Not on normal days, days when he wasn't throwing things off of desks and yelling at their captain or coming close to a nervous breakdown. "Well, you know, I told her about you. Just how you're such a good friend. Didn't tell her about the dancing though, ha. Guess I'm still learning things, twelve years later. I told her about how you put up with all my crap. How…" _Careful_, he thinks. "…supportive you've been these past few years."

"Okay, good. Well, you know, therapy can… it makes you think, you know? Really think about stuff. About… people. I mean, I think it helps… After Jo, I went a lot, still do on occasion. Occupational hazard. I'm just…" Now it was her turn to trail off. She sighs, looks him in the eye. "I'm just really glad you're getting things sorted out, Bobby. I feel like, these past few weeks, we've been… really in sync."

"Yeah, me too."

"There was never anybody at MCS who could touch our close rate."

He rubs the back of his neck again and kicks a rock off the step.

"Yeah, we were the best."

"We were. Still are," she says.

He's staring at her, and his mind is going too fast. He can feel his synapses firing, like after that third cup of coffee at 2 a.m. He suddenly doesn't want to be there, having this conversation, staring at her. He steps back on the sidewalk, is about to turn to go, but he doesn't want to leave this unfinished. Whatever "this" may be.

"But that's just it, isn't it?"

"What?" she asks. "What's it?"

"We could've not been."

They back away from each other to let a pizza delivery guy between them. They watch as he gets buzzed up, and then she gives him that face, that, _you've lost me face_, the one she uses after an unnecessarily long and convoluted suspect profile when she really just needs means, motive, and opportunity.

"There was that time, you know, after Ross. When we were, um, unemployed. That was when we weren't the best, because, well, _we _just weren't." He motions between the two of them with his hand. They weren't the best because there was no _them_. No Goren and Eames, no whack job and straight man. No genius and practicality. They just, _weren't_.

She nods, sighs, and leans against the opposite railing. "Yeah, I know what you mean. It was, rough I guess. Those couple of months…" She looks past him, and he wonders if she ever regrets that decision. Leaving. Leaving a captain's position, for, well, he won't say for him. But for… principle. Yes, she's nothing if not ethically sound. "I don't regret it though." He looks back at her. Ethically sound and a mind reader. "I got some much needed time off. Got to hang out with my nephew a lot. Think about things. Got back to the studio, I went a couple of times a week then," She hitches her bag up on her shoulder. "That time off, it helped me remember why I wanted to be a cop. Helped me appreciate the job, and the people that come with it." She smiles up at him. Not a big smile, just something bigger than a grin. It hits her eyes, and yeah, he'll admit it again: pleasantly attractive, beautiful, even. "And all that stuff with Ross, well, it worked out for the best I think. Me and you, we're… I feel like we're where we need to be. With the job, with, well, us, with everything. I don't know if you feel that way too, but you've got to admit, we're at least _getting_ there."

He looks back at her now. She's comfortably propped against the railing, bag in hand, hair almost completely out of that loose ponytail. He steels himself, chalks it up to therapy, and closes the distance between them. He pulls her to him, wraps her small, lithe frame into his. She drops the bag, returns the hug. He doesn't want to linger, doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. But he gives her a little squeeze. To any passing bystander, they could be slow dancing. Slow dancing on the front steps of her apartment, keeping perfect time. He thinks they got off beat a while ago. After a big distraction, they were completely off, but now, they're back, in step and together. He mirrors her, and she him. Doing a waltz, or a tango, or, in some cases, even a jive, but whatever they're doing, they're doing it together. He doesn't want to, but he knows he can't stay there all night, no matter how safe, how _good_ it feels. He drops his arms, gives a noncommittal shrug and heads back to his car.

He calls back over his shoulder, once he reaches his car. "See you in the morning Eames."

She tilts her head in acknowledgement, yells at him as he opens the door. "Hey Goren, let me know when you've got some free time." This time, he raises an eyebrow. She chuckles. "I'll give you a dance lesson."

He grins, nods, and slides into the Mustang. As he drives off, he thinks back to his therapy session. After Guyson's last question, he didn't really confirm or deny anything.

_Do you love her?_

Yes, he thinks. He loves her. Not like a sister, but not like a lover. It's more intimate than that, a transcendent relationship. He loves her because she's been through the same stuff he has. Loves her like a child loves his mother. Like a desert loves the rain. Loves her like a guardian angel. He's dependent, and yet needed at the same time. Loves that she trusts him enough to do his own thing, but knows how to make him look good all on her own. He loves her, he realizes, like a dancer loves his partner. Could that turn into something more? Maybe… working so closely with someone, watching them, reading their movements, for such a long time… it's possible. It's something he thinks he would like. Enjoy, definitely a positive. For now, he's content just to dance with her.

_Reviews appreciated... Happy June. :)_


End file.
